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My First Voyage to Southern Seas, by W.H.G. Kingston.

This is one of Kingston's earlier books, but is very much in the style
for which he became famous. The theme is that the father of a family, a
well to do merchant in London, dies suddenly. His eldest son had gone
off to sea, but had not been heard of for some time, and by some was
presumed dead. The second son is our young hero, who goes to sea as a
midshipman. The book is thereafter filled with his adventures as he
finds his way through rumour and chance to rescue his brother from where
he is in captivity.

It's quite a long book, but the action never drags, and there are some
interesting descriptions of the places visited, specially Ceylon.

As always with Kingston the seamanship is excellent. The action takes
place in the 1850s, and we are in the age of sail. There are pirates,
drunken captains, shipwrecks, strange coincidences, indeed all the usual
components of a good Kingston novel.

MY FIRST VOYAGE TO SOUTHERN SEAS, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON.

CHAPTER ONE.

MY ENGLISH HOME AND FAMILY MY BROTHER GOES TO SEA HEAR OF THE LOSS OF
HIS SHIP MY FATHER'S DEATH WE ARE REDUCED TO POVERTY RESOLVE TO VISIT
MY GRANDFATHER, AND TO SEARCH FOR ALFRED KINDNESS OF MY SCHOOLMASTER
AND COMPANIONS MY DOG SOLON.

Ours was a very united and a very happy family. We lived in the
neighbourhood of London, near Blackheath, in Kent, on the elevated
ground which overlooks Greenwich, its noble hospital, and the river
Thames. Our father was a merchant, a thoroughly upright, industrious
man, an honour to the profession to which he belonged. No man could be
more attentive to business than he was, and yet no one enjoyed the
country and the pursuits of the country more than he did. With what
pleasure did we look forward, when we were children, to his return in
the afternoon and even now I think I hear his cheerful laugh, and see
his bland smile, as he took us up one by one in his arms and kissed us,
and then often, though he must frequently have been tired and harassed,
had a game of boisterous romps with us, seeming entirely to have
forgotten all his cares and troubles. It was considered the privilege
of little Kate, or one of the other young ones, to look slily into his
pockets when, by a well known significant gesture, he let us understand
that they were not altogether empty. He had a little hand hamper or
basket, such as many another paterfamilias possesses, which travelled
with great regularity up and down nearly every day, and out of which all
sorts of wonderful articles used to appear; and if a friend accompanied
him unexpectedly down to dinner, our mother never had to complain that
she was taken unawares and had nothing fit to offer him. The hamper,
however, did not always contain eatables. Often our mother, or one of
us, had been wishing very much for something which could not possibly
have got into his pockets, and before many days were over, it was very
nearly certain to make its appearance, when the top of the hamper was
thrown back, imbedded in straw or paper. That dear old hamper always
put us in mind of some magic chest in a fairy tale, only I doubt if any
magic chest ever afforded so much pleasure, or produced so great a
variety of articles as it did. I do not know if our kind father ever
was out of humour; if he was, he left the appearance of it behind him in
the city. Out of spirits he seldom or never was in my childhood's days.

The time was coming when a sad change was to occur. I mention these
traits, trivial though they may seem, because I think that they speak
well of my father's character. At the same time that he was a most
affectionate father, he never forgot the necessity of correcting us for
our faults; while he was deeply sensible of the importance of fitting us
for the stations in life we might be destined to occupy, and of placing
clearly before us the object of our existence on earth, and our duty to
God and to our fellow men... Continue reading book >>